


Playing for Keeps

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships (P/Q), Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mob Boss!Tony, Rimming, Tony is Soft for Peter and Peter Only, Violence, homeless!peter, peter is 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: A homeless kid on the run from an abusive relationship misdirects the cops and saves Tony's skin (and his life). Now there is the question of repayment.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 40
Kudos: 1168





	Playing for Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: mob boss!tony sees peter sleeping on the streets, thinks he’s pretty so picks him up and turns him into his kept boy. But there’s a lot of h/c because peter is on the run from an abusive relationship, and of course the notoriously brutal mafia boss has somehow developed a soft spot…add daddy kink, rimming.

“FRIDAY, you listening to me baby?” Tony pants, pressing himself flush to the brick wall of a deli in Queens. His heart pounds against his sternum. There aren’t any shrieks of police sirens (the cops aren’t completely moronic, he’ll give them that), but he hears the thud of boots and calls from man to man as they sweep the streets, rounding up the last of Tony and Adrian’s men. 

“I’m here, boss,” FRIDAY speaks through his ear piece. 

“Change my review left on Tom Ford’s website for the Sharkskin Wool O’Conner suit in the navy from four stars to five. Add an amendium saying that it’s much more durable than expected, even on the go.” He ducks down the alley when he sees flashlights, cuts across the street and slips into a park, the eerie street lamps turning the swings into macabre figures and the merry-go-round into a ride of a terror. He presses his back to a tree wide enough to conceal the most of him and plants his palm over the aching wound on his thigh. It comes away covered with blood, slick blackness in the moonlight. “Say it handles gunshots well enough, but the true test will be how well the blood launders out.”

“Hey,” a voice calls (way too close for comfort). “Who’s there?” 

“Fuck me,” Tony hisses. He searches for a new place to hide while his heart threatens to explode. It won’t be the first time he’s been arrested, but it will be hard to explain the bullet wound. 

Then he spots his saving grace: the crawl tubes. Large durable plastic that snot nosed kids crawl through all day long when the park is open, wide enough to hold a grown man, though it won’t be comfortable by any means. It’s not the best choice, especially if they search the park, but with his head swimming from blood loss, he’s running out of options. 

Staggering to the nearest tube, he drops to his knees, ducks his head, and crawls into the tube. 

As it so happens, he crawls right on top of someone. 

“Ouch!” the someone shouts. 

“Shut up,” Tony hisses, blinking you let his eyes adjust to the new level of darkness. 

Inside the tube is a young man, barely an adult by Tony’s considerations. Features are a little too difficult to discern, but the mop of curly hair and the bony hand that pushes at him are clear enough. “Hey man,” the kid says. “Get your own place. I’m sleeping here. There’s other tubes—“

“Quiet,” Tony hisses again. “I’m hurt—“

The voices near them increase in volume. He pulls the kid close enough to smell him (and Queens’s homeless population doesn’t smell like roses, trust him), hissing into his ear. “My name is Tony Stark, if you help keep me out of jail, I’ll make it worth your while.”

The kid goes stiff all over. Tony Stark. Surely that name means something to him. It means something to all of New York, to all of the East Coast and more. Tony has a reputation for his criminal activities, for his wealth, for his playboy lifestyle, for his ruthlessness...for keeping his promises. 

Footsteps draw closer, beams of light from flashlights sweeping the ground. 

The kid wiggles out of the tube, and for a moment Tony thinks that he’s going to rat him out, going to call out  _ hey, over here, he’s in here!  _ But as soon as the kid is free of the tube, the lights converge on him and he’s nearly tackled. 

“Fuck me,” one of the officers groans. “Kid, you see anybody going by here?”

“Yeah,” the kid says. Tony’s heart clenches. “Some guy in a suit? Over that way.”

“Thanks kid,” the officer says, boots thundering away. “We’ll turn a blind eye to you sleeping here but don’t make a habit of it.”

Then the footsteps are fading, and then gone. The kid’s figure ducks down and blocks the light from the streetlamp. Tony squints against it to see the pale thin hand reaching out to help him from the tube. At least out of it, the smell isn’t so bad. 

He gets a good look at the kid for the first time. Short and petite to malnourishment, dirty with unwashed dark hair and a thin, angular face. He is pretty, eyes dark and too embarrassed to meet his own. He shoves his hands into the pockets of a sweatshirt that is far too large for him, and it’s so fucking cute, downright endearing. 

“Are you—are you  _ really  _ Tony Stark?”

“Yes,” Tony says. “I’m also bleeding out. I’m going to call for someone—stick around, okay? What’s your name, kid?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll go,” the kid says. He pauses, decidedly not going. “I’m Peter.”

“Peter,” Tony hums, unsteady on his feet. He reaches out and rests most of his weight against the crawl tube. Blood pools in his sock. He doesn’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, but he doesn’t have much longer left to bleed before he passes out. Tony takes off his leather belt with shaking hands and wraps it around his upper thigh. “Thanks for saving my ass, Peter. That’s a big deal to me, and I’d like to pay you back. What do you need, kid? A place to stay? Money?”

Peter kneels down in the dirt at Tony’s feet, taking the belt firmly in his thin, dirty hands, and begins to wrap the tourniquet for him. For his thin stature, he manages to pull the belt as tight as it needs to be and maybe a pinch more. Looking up, the streetlight catches his cheekbones and turns the hollows of his cheeks into dark shadows. Tony reaches out, head swimming, and pets at Peter’s curls, rubbing the soft, oily texture between his fingers. 

He realizes that Peter has spoken, and Tony has missed every word. 

Blinking the shadows from his eyes, Tony asks him to repeat himself. 

“I asked if you were trying to get me to go home with you,” Peter says. Even in the dim light, the flush on the kid’s cheeks is evident—Tony petting at his hair like he’s a goddamn puppy probably didn’t help, but he pleads temporary insanity due to how fuzzy his head feels. It occurs to him only then how indecent this appears: a young man on his knees in front of Tony.

“My penthouse does have four guest rooms,” Tony says. “I feel like I should mention that I’m going to pass out. FRIDAY, how far away is Happy?” 

“What?” Peter asks, drowning out FRIDAY’s response of  _ three blocks away, boss. _

“Great,” Tony answers. He preemptively sits down in the dirt beside the crawl tube. “Wake up Bruce too, and have him prep a transfusion or three.” 

After that, things get fuzzy. Passing out isn’t so clean or cut and dry. Sometimes he blinks, seeing things: a skinny kid with dirt on his face kneeling over Tony’s prone body, the lights on the ceiling of Tony’s car, snippets of conversations that make no sense even if he tries to join in. When Bruce sticks the IV into his arm for the blood transfusion, he comes awake long enough to see that they’ve cut through the pant leg of his suit  _ goddamnit _ . 

Then when he blinks, he’s in his penthouse bedroom, bladder aching from all the fluids Bruce pumped into him. The leg hurts like a bitch, bandages wrapped around the thickest part of his thigh. A ring of vivid bruises peaks just above them. Tourniquet, Tony thinks, though he can’t remember tying one on. On the bedside table sit pills and a sealed bottle of water (Tony doesn’t eat or drink from open packages, thanks). 

Ignoring the crutches placed beside his bed, he hobbles to the bathroom to piss. 

“FRIDAY, baby,” he asks, staring into the mirror at the growth of facial hair. “What day is it?” 

He finds out that he’s been asleep for two days. 

He hobbles to the kitchen, wincing with every step. His phone is full of notifications—figures. Mostly Toomes pretending to be outraged, telling Tony he’s got _ no idea  _ who the rat that alerted the police was, but when he finds him, he’s going to insert-colorful-threat here. When Tony confirms his suspicions that Toomes himself was the rat, he plans to see those dreams come to fruition. 

There’s someone sitting at his kitchen island. 

Tony blinks, wondering if this is a side effect of the blood loss. 

The figure is petite in all ways, his back to Tony while he slurps noisily from a bowl of cereal. He’s wearing clothes that are right for his height but very wrong for his width, sleeves dripping off of his slim, pale arms. The curly hair gives the figure a youthful appearance. All this, but no explanation. 

“FRIDAY, what am I looking at?” 

The figure jumps, sloshing milks and fruit loops all over the custom marble countertop. He turns, and it comes back then, distant, like two nights ago is just a story that he’s been told by someone else. Peter, from the park in Queens, the kid who had subverted the cops and saved Tony’s skin. Why the fuck he’s here in Tony’s penthouse eating cereal that Tony knows for-fucking _ -sure _ he didn’t own two days ago is still a mystery. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says. Squeaks, really. 

When he turns fully, Tony sees another (very important) detail. What he thought that night had been dirt all over the kid’s face was actually bruises, turning a sickly, healing green. Tony knows what violence looks like. He can spot a man-made bruise from a mile off. Living on the streets is an ugly life, and he knows that rough sleepers are prone to being on the receiving ends of violence: from police, from civilians, from other rough sleepers. Whoever would want to hurt a kid with eyes like Bambi, Tony doesn’t fucking know. 

“Peter,” Tony says. There’s fruit in the bowl on the counter, peelable ones. Nice. He begins tearing the skin off of a tangerine, sitting down at a stool so that his lower half will stop shaking. “Forgot about your entire existence until this moment” 

Peter flushes, grabbing towels to clean up his mess. “You said I could stay with you,” Peter says. “I’m sorry if that was—was just the blood loss talking or. Something.” 

Pepper enters, dressed for business. She wraps her arms around Tony, but not before ruffling Peter’s hair fondly on the way by. Tony lifts his eyebrows in the seclusion of her shoulder, wondering what the fuck is going on around here. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Pepper murmurs. “Getting shot isn’t to be taken lightly, especially at your advanced age.” 

“Ouch,” Tony says. “ _ That _ hurt worse than the bullet. I take it you’ve met Peter.” 

“Do you think I’d let a stray stay in your penthouse if I hadn’t met and vetted him?” 

“A face like his, I figured maybe he seduced you.” 

Peter flushes bright red. He jerks his thumb towards the sofa and makes a quick escape with his half-empty cereal bowl, sitting it on the glass coffee table and choosing to kneel on the floor instead of sit on the sofa. Somehow, he already knows where the remote is and how to turn on the ridiculously advanced television. 

“What’s he doing here, Pep?” Tony asks. 

“To be honest? We couldn’t get him to leave you. When Happy showed up to that park in Queens to take you home, apparently Peter gave him a black eye trying to keep him away from you. The kid’s obviously protective. And he saved your life, Tony. I figure that’s going to be worth something to you, so the last thing I wanted to do is give him some reasonable reward when I know that you’ll want to give him an outlandish one.” 

Tony takes it all in, watching Peter over her shoulder. He puts on a Star Wars marathon. Attack of the Clones. While he’s looking, Peter casts a glance their direction. When his eyes meet Tony’s, he turns red all over again, staring down into his cereal like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. 

The flush almost disguises the bruises on his face. 

“Any idea where his bruises came from?” Tony asks. 

“He’s about as tight lipped about it as you are about anything.” 

“Thank God I’m a professional at getting people to talk.” At the horrified look on Pepper’s face, Tony just laughs. “Jesus, Pep, I’m not going to torture the kid. He’s fucking twelve years old.” 

“Peter Parker.  _ Nineteen _ . Orphaned before ten, no living relatives that I could find. I’ve got records of him going to PATH. He spent ten days in a shelter before they were able to find him a more permanent housing location at a Holiday Inn, but he left the hotel suddenly and without disclosing a reason.” 

“A mystery is afoot,” Tony says. He hates mysteries. 

“Reward him with whatever outrageous idea you have in mind, but let yourself heal before you go after Toomes, Tony. I mean it. I have to get back to running your company; I can’t do  _ all  _ your work for you.” 

When it’s just him and Peter left in the penthouse, Tony takes his peeled citrus and sits on the couch, close enough that he can feel the heat Peter’s body throws off where he’s kneeling on the floor drinking the milk from his cereal bowl. 

“Sorry if I’m not supposed to be here, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. 

Tony tears off a slice of the tangerine and hands it to him. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Pep made the right move asking you to stay until I woke up. Now we can talk about payment—” 

“I don’t need anything. Really!” 

“—don’t interrupt me, Peter.” 

Peter immediately goes slack, head tipping forward in submission. He murmurs the sweetest, “Yessir,” and Tony’s not ashamed (very little about his sexual proclivities could ever make him feel ashamed) but is certainly surprised at the way his stomach jolts with unexpected arousal. Nineteen and so fucking sweet. Jesus. 

“You saved more than just my ass in that park, kid, you saved my life,” Tony begins. “I value my life very much. I’d go so far as to say it’s invaluable to me. How I can possibly repay you, I’m not sure, but I’m going to enjoy trying. Here are some options: money. How much do you think my life is worth?” 

Peter blinks. 

“You can answer.” 

“I, I don’t know, sir,” Peter says. “Life is—it’s like you said. It’s invaluable.” 

“What’s my net worth? Do you know that?” 

“Billions,” Peter says. Tony can tell by the flippant way he says it that the kid has no idea the magnitude of that. Tony can imagine his entire subpar life: lower middle class in his childhood, fell on harder times during his teenage years, adults around him always working their fingers to the bone and counting every last penny. A poor boy from Queens probably can’t imagine a billion dollars. 

“How does ten million sound?” Tony asks. “That’s enough for property, for you to pay your taxes until you die, for groceries and cars and entertainment. Find yourself a nice girl, have some kids and still leave them money when you croak. What do you think?” 

Peter is speechless. His face goes white and his thin lips part and can’t seem to find their way back together again. The silence goes on a moment too long and Tony can’t help but barrel forward, filling it up. 

“I’m also capable of favors of a more...personal nature,” Tony says. A sound comes from Peter’s throat, and Tony realizes the kind of personal favors the kid might be thinking of—he can’t help but laugh, raking his eyes over the tiny figure (and he licks his lips because they’re dry, thanks). “I mean that I have a way of making bad people regret being bad. If there’s anyone out there who has hurt you? I can make sure they never do that again.” 

He can’t help but reach out and place one tan, calloused palm against the side of Peter’s face where the bruises are healing. The kid’s eyes flutter closed at the touch, and Tony feels stirrings in his gut: pity for this fragile boy, fury for the people who take out their weakness on others. Touch-starved, Peter tilts his head into the warm palm, mouth opening with a gentle breath. 

“Who hurt you, Peter?” 

“M’ boyfriend,” Peter breathes. His eyes squeeze tighter now. The brief moment of sensuality dissolves and Peter burrows into Tony’s hand seeking comfort. 

“Ex-boyfriend,” Tony says. He draws the kid up off the floor and Peter buries himself in Tony’s chest, legs folded underneath him, shaking like a leaf in the wind. The size difference between them might make Tony’s mouth dry (if he weren’t full of adrenalin and fury); Peter is small enough to tuck under Tony’s chin, to wrap his arms around the boy with ease. “Tell me everything.” 

“His name is Quentin,” Peter says, voice muffled from where he’s hiding his face. “He works at PATH. The intake center.” 

Prevention Assistance and Temporary Housing—the first stop for people who become homeless in New York City. 

“He took me out sometimes while I was waiting to get out of the shelter and into one of the apartments or hotels. Bought me dinner and, and took me to movies and stuff. Took me back to his apartment. He listened to me and made me feel good. But he got mad when I was moved out of the shelter and into the Inn. He kept trying to get me to come and live with him and I—I didn’t want to anymore. Sometimes he would come to my room at the hotel. He said if I didn’t let him in, he’d have me kicked out! I swear, Mr. Stark, I never wanted to let him in—” 

“No more of that,” Tony says. He can’t help but plant a hand against Peter’s curls and pull the boy closer to his chest, wrapping an arm around his thin waist to try to keep him from breaking apart with the force of his trembling. “No more being sorry. He was taking advantage of you, kid. People like that don’t deserve to live.” 

“I knew that the only way to get away would be to run, so I just left the hotel and I didn’t go back. I was so scared of him, Mr. Stark but, but mostly I was so scared that I would say  _ yes _ . That I would go live with him just to have a place to stay, that I would let him do whatever he wanted so long as he’d give me food. I— _ I still have his card _ . In case I’m ever really desperate.” 

“Now you have something else, Peter. Come on, come out of there and look at me.” He coaxes Peter’s face from his chest. The red-rimmed eyes only emphasize the green bruises along his jaw and cheek and temple. His nostrils flare while he tries to take a deep breath and center himself, cupping the tender jaw, wishing he could heal through touch. “Do you know what you have, Peter? You have a  _ choice _ . Give me his card, give me your fear and your worry, and I will make sure that you never have to look over your shoulder for him again.” 

“ _ No _ . You’ll kill him,” Peter says, lips trembling. 

“Not at first,” Tony says. “Not until I’m finished with him.” 

“If I let you do that, then what kind of person am I?” asks Peter. 

“A safe one.” 

“But then? When he’s, when he’s gone? I’ll—” Peter cuts himself off, staring down into his lap. 

“Tell me, sweet thing. You’ll what?” 

Huge tearful brown eyes glance up through riotous curls. “I’ll never see you again.” 

Tony almost snorts. Almost. “Would that be so terrible, baby? I’m a bad, bad man.” 

“I know you are,” Peter says. “This is just the safest I’ve felt since my uncle died.” 

His petite fingers uncurl from where they’re coiled into fists against his chest. They press, soft as butterfly wings, against the collar of Tony’s t-shirt that he’d shrugged on before leaving his bedroom. When he feels them brush against skin, Tony takes a deep slow breath in through his nose. 

“Maybe I could convince you to, to let me stay?” Peter asks. 

“My name is Tony, not Quentin. I might be a bad man, but I’m not that kind of man, kid. I’m not going to make you suck me off for a place to stay or for food to eat.” 

“What if I want to?” breathes Peter. Those dark eyes are glued to Tony’s mouth. 

“Peter.” 

“I just, I don’t know what it’s like to—to enjoy it,” Peter admits. Tony isn’t sure what’s trembling more fiercely: his voice or his thin fingers where they’re curling over Tony’s shirt collar. His face flushes in a shameful way. “Even when I wanted to be with Quent, he was really rough. It made it hard to get...you know... _ hard _ .”

Tony said he was a bad man, but the idea Peter plants in his brain makes him feel positively sinful. Taking this young man and showing him—teaching him—pleasure. Learning all the ways to make him squirm and make his cock leak, letting him learn the things he likes. It makes Tony shift (ignoring the brief spike of pain in his thigh) to try to urge the kid off of his hardening cock. Judging by the way Peter’s breath catches and then picks up, he’s noticed that Tony has taken interest. 

“Please, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, sensing weakness, digging his nails in the cracks of Tony’s control and trying to pry a panel loose. He is quick to amend, “Only if you want to, though.” 

Slow, to savor, Tony lets his hands unwind from around the kid’s waist and fall to the thin hips, docking the hipbones in his palms and spreading his fingers wide. His throat goes dry seeing how large his hands look. Peter trembles, head tilted back. One glance reveals that he’s hard where Tony’s hands frame his crotch. Gently, giving him plenty of time to say no, Tony coaxes him forward until he’s rubbing that bulge in his jeans against Tony’s hard midsection. Peter whines in the back of his throat, hands moving to Tony’s shoulders where he digs his fingertips in. 

“You look good on me, kid,” Tony says. 

“Thank you,” Peter whispers shyly. 

Tony can’t help but grin. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Peter’s forehead. His lips brush against skin when he murmurs, “Let me take you somewhere more comfortable.” 

-

If Tony thought Peter looked good in his lap, he looks even better on Tony’s dark silken sheets. Tony pauses to take another pill from the bottle at his bedside, hoping it will abate the last of the ache in his leg. It’s the last thing he wants to be thinking about with those dark, innocent eyes on him, tracing over him, shifting from side to side with how hard he is. 

“There’s only one thing that’s non-negotiable with me in the bedroom,” Tony says, drinking from his bottle of water. “If something isn’t to your liking, to your interest, you tell me so. You stop me right away. If I think you aren’t enjoying yourself, if I even suspect you’re trying to keep it from me, I’ll stop. Do you understand?” 

Peter looks lovestruck, starstruck. Normal discussions about consent shouldn’t have him looking so dumbfounded—but Tony will show him. The way it’s supposed to be. 

“What’s first, Peter?” he asks. “Tell me what you want.” 

The kid sits up from where he was lounging comfortably against the soft pillows. “Can we kiss?” he asks. “Quent never really liked to kiss.” 

Tony plants the knee of his good leg on the bed and lets the other rest on the floor. Peter scoots to him. When Tony takes the delicate chin in his hand, Peter lets out a low noise, eyes fluttering shut in preemptive ecstasy. They meet open-mouthed, taking long sips from each other’s mouth. Peter might be unpracticed, but he is perfectly obedient letting Tony lead the way and taking cues intuitively. Kissing Peter isn’t very much unlike kissing a woman, thanks to the kid’s delicate features and hairless face. He tastes like the fruity cereal he finished earlier. Tony might be converted. 

He kisses the breath from the kid. Whenever Peter tries to increase the intensity of the kiss, Tony brings him back down. There’s going to be nothing frantic, nothing rough about this sex. He’s going to lead Peter to euphoria with all the careful tenderness he’s capable of, until Peter gives himself up to it, sinks into it. 

When boldness encourages Peter to suck on Tony’s tongue (so fucking sweetly), he can’t help but groan low in his throat. He breaks them apart just long enough to trail his lips down the smooth skin of Peter’s cheek, dragging his teeth lightly across the sharp jawline before pressing soft, wet kisses to the kid’s neck. Goosebumps blossom all over Peter’s arms where they clutch at Tony’s shoulders, and it does wonders for the older man’s ego. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps. One hand falls to his lap, flutters over his erection before going back to Tony’s shoulders. 

“What is it, Pete?” Tony asks, mouth against wet, sensitive skin. “You hard, baby? You can touch yourself.” 

“I—I can?” Peter asks. “But I’ll cum.” 

Tony lifts his eyebrows. “Is that bad?” 

“I just—I didn’t know I had permission.” 

Tony pulls back so that he can look Peter in the eye, so he can take in that pupil-swollen stare for himself. “Your orgasms are your own, Pete. Warning before you cum in my mouth is nice, but otherwise, you don’t need my permission. Understand?” 

Peter gapes like a fish. “Before I cum in your mouth? Why would I—?” 

“Christ, did he never suck you off, sweet thing?” 

Peter turns red, shaking his head. “You would do that for me?” 

“Yes,” Tony says wryly. Fuck, if the kid looks so eager just for a blowjob, how will he be when Tony is tongue deep inside his ass? “And I’d enjoy it almost as much as you would. What do you say, kid? Should we get undressed?” 

“Yes, please,” Peter says. He throws off his shirt in an instant, all youthful exuberance. His body is slimmer than Tony likes, slim in a way that makes Tony’s heart ache at the gentle ripple of ribs along his sides, at the rise of his clavicles. Cereal. They need more cereal. 

Tony takes his time tugging his tee off over his head. Their bodies couldn’t be more different: tan against pale, hard against soft, broad against slight. Peter stands to push unzip his jeans and push them down his slim hips, then he kneels on the floor to help Tony gently out of his sweatpants, careful of the bandage on his thigh, though with the buzz of the medication thrumming through his blood, Tony isn’t feeling any pain. 

When Tony sits naked except for the gauze around his leg, Peter takes him in with wide eyes and a bobbing throat. He seems especially interested with the older man’s cock, face burning with every glance he gives it. Crossing his hands in his lap to hide the erection that tents his threadbare boxers, Peter asks, “Can we turn the lights off?” 

“I can dim them,” Tony says. “But I won’t turn them off. I need to see your face to know how you’re feeling. What’s wrong, baby? Feeling shy?” 

Peter stares at his lap, wringing his hands. “‘m just—not like you. Not handsome.” 

Tony reaches down and takes his cock in his fist. He’s not familiar with shyness, never having experienced it himself, never having taken lovers who were anything other than bold. His hand around his cock makes his shoulders sag with relief even if the stimulation just stokes the fire in his gut higher. Peter makes a noise where he’s kneeling between Tony’s legs, a needy, pained sound, eyes glued to the thick head that disappears and reappears from Tony’s fist. 

“Handsome is a matter of subjectivity,” Tony says. “But trust me when I say that I’m very, very attracted to you.” A bead of precum wells at the top of his cock and Tony thumbs at it until the whole head is glistening with it. “Do you have any doubt at all?” 

Peter shakes his head, and Tony takes time to fist his cock for a few more moments, scanning Peter’s face for any hint of insincerity. The kid stands and shucks his boxers. Beneath is a nice sized cock. The hairs on his thighs are much paler than the ones on his calves, and it’s fucking cute. It’s charming. There are bruises around his ankles (and his wrists, Tony sees—those make his teeth grind imagining where those bruises came from, if this Quentin had Peter tied to his fucking bed). 

Reaching out, Tony takes a thin wrist and kisses the bruises, just the barest touch of his lips against the skin in case it’s tender. 

“Doesn’t hurt anymore,” Peter says, as if that makes it better. 

“You’ll never hurt again, kid, not as long as I’m breathing.” A promise he makes: to Peter and to himself. “What next? You’re in charge.” 

“I don’t know,” Peter says. “Usually I’d blow Quentin for a while. Then sometimes he’d finger me—”

“ _ Some _ times? Jesus fucking Christ. What’d he do the other times, just force himself in?” 

Peter ducks his head, like he’s the one who has done something wrong, like he’s the one who has been shoving his cock inside a twink with no prep. Tony urges Peter up until he’s standing between the older man’s spread legs and presses a kiss to the pale sternum. For a moment he feels the pounding heart beneath his lips. 

“He’s in the wrong, not you,” Tony says. “Foreplay is essential to me, and it helps to keep you safe. Did he hurt you very badly? Did he tear you?” 

“Sometimes,” Peter says, chest hitching. His cock jumps when Tony presses his facial hair, gently rasping at the skin. Tony kisses his way left towards Peter’s flat, pale nipples. He keeps his mouth so soft and teasing when he takes it between his lips, dragging the flat of his tongue over it until it stiffens and then flicking it rapidly. Peter takes the stimulation like Tony’s electrocuting him, keening and reaching up to thread his fingers into the older man’s hair. “Oh God, Mr. Stark, please don’t stop, that feels so good, so good.” 

He switches to avoid overstimulating the kid, pulling back to blow cool air and watch him shiver, to glance down at the aching cock that drips onto the carpet. 

“I said I’d blow you,” Tony says, placing a chaste kiss between the younger man’s pecks. “Is that something you’re interested in?” 

“Please,” Peter gasps. “But Mr. Stark, there’s no way I’ll last. I’d cum right away.” 

“What’s wrong with that,” Tony purrs. “Help me down onto my knees, will you?” 

Peter does, making sure that Tony can brace himself to keep from tensing his thigh until he’s eye-to-eye with Peter’s cock. It’s well proportioned for its owner, darkly flushed from how aroused the younger man is, head slick. When he glances up, he sees that Peter’s head is tilted up and away, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, putting a hand on Peter’s thigh. The cock in front of him jumps. “We don’t have to do this—” 

“Tryin’ not to cum,” Peter gasps. 

“Well that’s no fun,” says Tony. He leans forward, leading with the flat of his tongue that he braces beneath the head before taking it into his mouth and suckling at it, one hand coming up the cradle the tight balls beneath. 

Peter cries out, high and loud and feminine. His hips jerk forward until half his cock is in Tony mouth, but Tony takes it in stride, hollowing his cheeks to increase suction. He feels before the kid cums, the way his cock lengthens just a tad, the way his balls grow tighter, drawing up against his body. Peter stammers out a warning and then he is cumming, shouting a litany of oaths and  _ Mr. Starks _ —and when tangled amongst them is the word  _ daddy _ , Tony feels his own cock ache, desperate to cum himself.

Tony lets Peter ride the crests of his orgasm, softening his mouth so as to not overstimulate him. But he continues the gentle motions of his mouth even after he’s stopping cumming, even as his body is wracked with shivers and whines. After a few minutes, Peter begins to lengthen in his mouth again, though he never truly grew soft. 

“You taste so good, Pete,” Tony murmurs when he pulls back, continuing to jerk him off. “How do you feel about letting me taste you somewhere else?” 

“Where?” Peter asks, breathing heavily. 

“Wanna fuck you with my tongue,” Tony admits. The way the cock in his hand jerks, the way the kid’s chest jumps with a gasp, Tony can tell he’s at least intrigued. “Is that on the table?” 

“Why would you want to do that?” Peter’s face is red again. “What do you get out of it?” 

“I’m an oral kind of guy. I love using my mouth on people: cunts, cocks, asses. I’m good at it, and I enjoy it. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t. Our condition goes both ways. That’s how honesty works.” 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groans, like Tony is torturing him in the best kind of way. 

“No, no more of that,” Tony says, eyes glittering wickedly. “You can call me Daddy or Sir. Understand?” 

Peter’s chest hitches again, watching Tony with wide, vulnerable eyes. He nods, and if his head weren’t held on by his neck, it might bob off altogether. Cheeks flushing, he says, “Yes, Daddy.” 

“Good boy. On the bed, sweet thing, elbows and knees.” He gives Peter a pillow to hold, fingers digging into the soft fabric. He makes the most obscenely sexy picture, ass in the air, ankles crossed demurely. A gentle hand between his shoulder blades soothes him forward into the bed, the arch of his back exposing his most delicate parts to Tony’s hungry eyes. “You look so fucking good, Pete. Anybody who doesn’t think so is a fucking fool, honey, you know that?” 

“Daddy,” Peter whispers, hips shifting, eager. 

Tony takes Peter’s ass in both hands, spreading it. He leans in and licks a stripe from balls to tailbone. Peter shouts, entire body jerking, and Tony can’t help but laugh. The kid joins him after a few moments, pressing his face into his palms. Slicking his thumb, Tony gently reaches out to let it rub at the perineum, watching the artful way Peter’s back arches. Tony presses the flat of his tongue against the younger man’s hole, laving it with firm but tender strokes. 

“Oh God, daddy,” Peter groans, muffled by his hands. “Please don’t stop, feels so good.” 

Tony doesn’t bother taking his mouth away to explain that he won’t be stopping. He just works harder to dissolve the kid into monosyllables: placing wet, sucking kisses on that twitching hole, stiffening his tongue into a point and then pressing forward, coaxing Peter to relax and open up to him. When he finally does, Tony presses his tongue in deeply and lets it catch on the rim when he withdraws. Like any skill he’s honed, Tony lets himself drift while he works to take the younger man apart, floating until the aching cock between his own legs becomes secondary. 

“More,” Peter says. “Please? Please more—anything—” 

Carefully, Tony wets a finger and lets the pad of it press at Peter’s entrance. It gives easily, sinking in to the first joint, and Peter gasps, hips jerking, struggling to sink himself back on that finger more. Tony encourages him to, slow and steady. By the time he reaches the second knuckle, he searches, gentle, gentle—

When he drags his finger over Peter’s prostate, the kid  _ shrieks _ . 

“Good or bad?” Tony asks. Because honestly, he can’t tell. 

“Do it again, please, please, God, do it again.” 

Tony does. Again, and again, and again, stopping when Peter’s moans grow too high in pitch and then just fingering him gently. When he feels open and more relaxed, Tony withdraws and presses in with two fingers. Peter groans long and low, thighs shaking. 

When he speaks, he sounds drunk on pleasure, slurring out a, “‘s so good, Daddy, never stop, please.”

“I won’t stop, sweet thing,” Tony murmurs. “Not until you cum.”

When he reduces the kid to babbles and groans, he begins to gently scissor his finger, spreading them when he pulls out. It will take plenty of prep to prepare Peter for a cock the size of Tony’s, and he will take no chances. The sight of the pink rim stretching around his fingers, sucking him in so sweetly has his own cock aching. 

Peter flinches—away from Tony’s fingers rather than towards them. He doesn’t say a word, but the encouraging moans stop while he lays there, face turned away, hands clenched into fists. Tony stills his fingers, closing them where they were working to spread the boy open. 

“Peter—eyes on me.”

Whining, he turns his face towards Tony, and the older man sees the sheen of tears in his eyes. Carefully, he withdraws his fingers. 

“No,” Peter cries, face twisting. “Please don’t stop, Mr. Stark,  _ Daddy _ —“

Tony rubs a hand against his flank. “Calm down, kid. Did that hurt? At the end? Be honest with me. We’ve got one rule and that’s honesty.”

Peter sniffs. “Stung a little.”

“Good boy,” Tony coos. “What felt best, then? When I had my tongue in you? One finger?”

Peter flushes. The sheen of tears disappears from his eyes, never having grown heavy enough to fall. Nodding, he says, “Your tongue was so good—“

“Thank you,” Tony says, winking. “Then that’s as far as we’ll go today. Maybe we’ll work up to anal someday or maybe we won’t. Don’t give me that look. Sex isn’t all or nothing, kid. It’s about enjoying yourself.”

Peter begins to protest (something unbearably honest and naively seductive about how he wants Tony’s cock in his ass) but Tony quiets him by leaning back in to thrust his tongue into his opening, groaning at the firm pliance of the rim worked open by his fingers. Too much of listening to that could go straight to the older man’s head. With his free hand, Tony cradle Peter’s balls, letting his thumb rub against that space behind them, stimulating his prostate from the outside. 

“ _ Fuuuuck _ ,” Peter groans, long and low. “Oh God Mr.—God,  _ Daddy _ , won’t take much, I’m already close, oh thank you so much, thank you—“

When he does cum at last, he goes silent and stiff, balls hard like stones in Tony’s ever-rolling palm, his back arched deeper than a stretching cat’s. Beneath him, his cock spurts on and on and on, striping the silken sheets. His thighs shake until they can hold him up no more and he rolls, collapsing on his back on a clean space. 

“Thank you, he says, smiling blissfully. 

Tony reaches out and strokes the kid’s slim ankle. This young man makes him feel the strangest sense of softness and sentimentality. It’s a weakness, surely, but a strength in some ways as well. Tony feels a maelstrom of violence welling in him on Peter’s behalf, potential energy that makes his fingertips buzz, aching to be unleashed on the people who might hurt him. 

“You didn’t cum,” Peter asks, eyes slitting open lazily. He’s dozing, relaxed, safe, fed, warm. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Tony says, thumb rubbing tenderly at the soft skin on the inside of his ankle. “Just rest for now. Round two can come later. Pun intended.” 

Peter hums in assent. Tony is almost sure he’s asleep when he speaks again, jolting the older man from his dark thoughts. “Keep me,” Peter breathes while slipping into sleep. “Please, keep me.” 

“I will, Peter,” Tony promises. “That’s how I play.” 

-

Peter sleeps. 

When the gentle snores can be heard, Tony rolls, thigh aching, until he’s out of the bed. 

The first thing he does is take up Peter’s jeans from the floor and empty his pockets. When he finds nothing, he creeps into the guests rooms one by one until he finds the one Peter has obviously been sleeping in, bed made but not to Tony’s specifications. In the corner is a backpack, and Tony goes through it carefully. He tries not to take note of the contents—this is already an invasion of Peter’s privacy, but that doesn’t mean he has to relish in it—focused on one item and one item only. 

In a plastic bag tucked away in one of the backpack’s inner pockets, he finds the card of one  _ Quentin Beck _ . On the back, the man had written his cellphone and,  _ bingo _ . His home address. Tony rubs his thumb over the scrawled ink. 

He could put it back now. One glimpse and those numbers and names are embedded in his mind. 

But instead Tony takes it to the sink. Pulling matches from the drawer, he strikes one into flame and drops it into the basin, watching while the edges of the card darken and curl and then turn to ash. The smoke is minimal—his kitchen has certainly seen worse. When Peter wakes in an hour, he’ll wrinkle his nose and ask,  _ did you burn something? _ And Tony will just say,  _ Yes _ . 

At last, he turns on the faucet and lets the ash and residue go down the drain.

Then he does what he does best: he puts on coffee, and he plans.


End file.
